


breath(e)

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: After Sam runs himself into the ground working a case, he and Dean have a chat.





	breath(e)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on [tumblr](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com/post/160198660612/fic-breathe-1k-gen-hc-this-is-a-prompt) as part of the [Celebrating Sam](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/913316.html) event. It was written in response to the prompt "oxygen".

Sam wakes up slowly, in stages. Sound comes back first, buzzing white noise of nearby voices and the muffled shuffling of rubber soles on linoleum. There’s a quiet hissing, somewhere closer to him, like a leaky tire or someone exhaling long and drawn-out.

Next, sensation slowly starts to creep in. Sam’s left foot itches. His chest feels heavy, aches like he’s been kicked in the ribs, crushed under the wheels of a truck. There’s something on his face, tickling his cheeks and scratching uncomfortably at the underside of his nose.

He reaches a hand up—slow, his arms heavy and uncooperative—and struggles to remove the offending object. His nose is so dry he’s surprised not to feel blood. The sensation makes him stutter out a cough, which sparks pain in his ribs and steals his breath and won’t _stop_ , and then he’s wheezing audibly and fumbling at the thing on his face, tipping on the edge of panic.

“Hey.” A voice, low and close and alarmed. There are hands on Sam’s, pulling them away from his face. “Dude, cut it out. Oxygen. You need that to survive.”

Finally, Sam opens his eyes. Dean is crouched over beside him, face tense with anger in the way Sam knows means he’s really scared. Behind him, white walls and hard, uncomfortable chairs Sam recognizes immediately as _hospital_.

_Fuck,_ he tries to say, can’t stop coughing long enough to get the breath.

Dean readjusts the tubing on Sam’s face, raises the bed so he’s propped up better, keeps a hand on Sam’s shoulder while Sam coughs and gasps until black spots start blinking in his vision and he thinks he might pass out again. He’s tight-lipped, tense with worry, unshaven and hollow-eyed in a way that suggests he’s been camped out at the hospital since they got here.

When Sam finally stops coughing, his head is swimming and his ribs are alight with pain, sparking hot and sharp on every breathless inhale. He struggles to catch his breath for a while. Then, as soon as he can, he croaks, “Sorry.”

“You remember what happened?” Dean says. His thumb rubs soothing circles where he’s gripping Sam’s shoulder.

“Uh, the salt-and-burn in Virginia?” Sam says. “We were at the graveyard, then…” He gestures vaguely, which tugs uncomfortably at an IV line in his arm. He lowers his hand back to the bed.

“Yeah,” Dean says, dry. “See, I knew you weren’t feeling well, but you had me convinced you could hunt. ‘Just a cold,’ my ass.” He sits back, rubs a hand over his face. “You started coughing while we were burning the body. Passed out right there in the dirt. Lucky you didn’t fall in and catch fire.”

“Oh,” Sam says. Sure, he hasn’t been feeling the greatest for the past week or so, but the symptoms—loss of appetite, fatigue, chills and full-body aches—really didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. At least, not enough to raise any major concern. The lingering cough he’d chalked up to a cold, the abnormal pressure in his chest to routine anxiety made worse by exhaustion. He’s worked countless cases in much worse shape than he’s in now, so the idea that he should be worried about his hunting efficiency hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Your lips were blue,” Dean says, cocking an eyebrow. “When I brought you in, your fever was up over 105. They weren’t totally sure you’d get better at first. Not until you started responding to the antibiotics yesterday. Imagine that—after all the crap you’ve been through, all it takes is pneumonia and a little smoke inhalation and—” He breaks off and draws a finger across his throat.

“Dean,” Sam says, careful. Dean’s posture is stiff, brittle like he might shatter if Sam says the wrong thing. “I didn’t know, honestly.”

Dean gives a hollow little laugh. “I know. That’s the worst part.” He rubs his fingers anxiously over his mouth then presses his palms to his thighs, visibly willing himself to be still. “Sam, you gotta check in more often. With me, but mostly with yourself. You need to recognize when things are this bad, okay? I need you to take care of yourself. Please.”

Sam wants to explain that he tries but his gauge is shot and he can’t read it anymore, can’t find the fine line that separates _functional_ from _imminent collapse_. But he doesn’t have enough breath for all those words, and there’s a particular pleading note in Dean’s voice that begs for reassurance Sam won’t deny him, so instead he nods and says, “Okay. I promise.”

It works. Dean exhales all at once, a _whoosh_ of breath Sam envies. Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. “Okay,” he says, softening. “We can talk more later. You need anything?”

“Um.” Despite the help of the oxygen tank chugging away next to him, breathing is taking up a lot of effort. Sam is already exhausted from his brief bout of wakefulness, eyes heavy and threatening to drag him unconscious mid-conversation. “A nap, I think.”

“All right,” Dean says, settling back in his chair. “I’ll be here.”

“Uh, no way,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. “You reek. Go take a shower. My delicate lungs can hardly bear it.”

“Shut up,” Dean scoffs. “You don’t exactly smell like flowers yourself, princess.”

“M’serious,” Sam says. He’s rapidly losing the battle against consciousness. “And bring me a smoothie when you come back. Something with kale.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, affronted. Sam hears his chair scrape back from the bed. “I can’t believe we’re related.”

Sam hums his agreement, too tired to dignify him with a response.

Dean’s fingers brush through Sam’s hair, just once, gentle. “Go to sleep, Sammy.”

Sam’s already there.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are eternally appreciated!


End file.
